The Chances we take for the Rules we Break
by Canadian Hogan's Fan
Summary: <html><head></head>Lebeau's sister Marcella discovers the differences between right and wrong are only shades of grey when her past returns to haunt her. Part three in the Sisterhood of War.</html>


AN: I claim ownership to all OCs.

Paris, France

May 14, 1944

_Mon Dieu, he'll kill me if he catches me. _

My lungs felt ready to burst as I shoved a short wart-covered woman out of my way and into a fruit cart on the sidewalk. Keep running, I thought as she and the cart's spindly mustached owner cursed at me.

"Marcella!" Stadermann yelled, his footsteps sharp and heavy behind me. "Come back here!"

My shoes wobbled in protest as I pounded them harder against the brickwork. _Don't break now, _si vous plait_._ _Don't break._

"Stop that woman! She's wanted by the Gestapo for questioning!"

I dodged a pair of _mademoiselles _in spring dresses walking poodles and glanced back. He'd passed the fruit cart and was gaining fast.

I turned down an alley, leaping over a few crates in my way. My heart fell when I spotted a cobblestone wall a few metres away._ Heaven save me. What can I do? Where can I hide? _

A sickening crack echoed around me and I cried out as my foot jarred out of my hastily shortened shoe. I tried to catch my balance, only to land face first in a puddle. The water stung my eyes and burned my nose the way _P__è__re'_s cigars used to.

"My ankle!" I sobbed, pushing myself up with my throbbing palms as the water left a slimy trail down my cheeks. "I can't feel it."

A cackle worthy of a crow cut through my consciousness. "Who's the fool now?" Stadermann shouted, blocking my exit as he leaned against the alley wall. I was surprised; he never liked to dirty his clothes, especially his favourite pin strip suit.

"Leave me alone!" I begged. "I'll scream if you don't."

He laughed again, strutting toward me. "What makes you think anyone would care? You are a disgraced woman. You're nothing."

My eyes flicked from side to side, desperately seeking escape. Seeing none, I felt a hopelessness I'd never thought possible.

oOo

"Marcella."

I snapped my head up, almost startled to see the shelves of books around me, and took a deep breath as the memory retreated. I must've inhaled too much dust and mould, for I sneezed.

Maurice, my boss's athletic son, approached me, an amused smirk spreading across his tanned face. "Forgive me. I didn't know you were so engrossed in that copy of _Ourika._"(1)

I looked down, my cheeks burning as I closed the book in my hands and returned it to its place. "I wasn't reading. Merely thinking."

He winked, rolling up his white shirtsleeves. "Come now, Madame Moureau. There's no shame in being swept up in the glamour of Paris's salons. I once dreamed I was Madame Pompadour's lover."

I rolled my eyes. "Can you think of nothing but women? No wonder your father hired me to help him run his bookstore."

He wiped his hands on his brown suit paints. "My father's a wise man. Not only did he choose a smart woman for the job, but a very beautiful one too." He sighed. "If only she would allow me to walk her home after work."

"Maurice…."

"I know, Monsieur Moreau would object."

I gazed at my wedding band, suddenly feeling as tired as Atlas must've been before unburdening the world onto Hercules's shoulders. _If only Henri could object._

He frowned. "Something the matter?"

I grabbed my ledger and crayon.(2) "Nothing, other than your interruptions. I must finish counting this aisle before lunch. Now, what do you want?"

"Madame Girard wants to know if we have a copy of _Le Petit Prince_ she could buy for her son's birthday. It seems the Nazis liberated most other book stores' copies if they haven't put them out of business."

I pointed to my left. "Two aisles over, first book on the second shelf."

He blew me a kiss. "Magnifique. You're wise and beautiful with the memory of an elephant."

"You certainly have a way with words," I muttered as he departed.

"What is going on in here?" a voice squeaked behind me.

I turned to my benefactor, a stout man opposite from his son in every way. "I'm terribly sorry, Monsieur Bergeron. Maurice wanted to ask me about a book."

"And the pleasure of your company when he should be working, no doubt." He clicked his tongue as he cleaned his spectacles on his tweed vest. "I'm growing too old for young men's nonsense. I ought to sell this shop before he has a chance to bankrupt it."

I patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, he'll settle down. My Henri was like that when we were first married." I cleared my throat, remembering how his brown eyes seemed to dance as he wiggled Louis' nounou_r(_3) in front of him_._ A foolish thought really; nothing that should've upset me. But it did.

Monsieur Bergeron took my hand and placed it between his own. They reminded me of the meat pies my maman made for Monday supper. "What is it, cherie? Maurice?" He bobbed his chins. "Of course. I'll talk to him if it would make you feel better."

"Non," I croaked. "I was thinking about my husband. Today would've been his thirty-eighth birthday."

Monsieur Bergeron looked down. "I'm so sorry. How did it happen?"

"An accident at a German munitions factory two years ago," I said, my tone hard. "Although, I doubt it was much of an accident."

He let go of my hand and slammed a fist against a nearby shelf, sending a copy of _Madame Bovary_ flying. "Damn the Bosch's Obligatory Work Service. They would've taken Maurice had I not greased a few palms." He spat on a Nazi textbook by our feet. "We shouldn't have to pay them to not take our men or businesses. Frenchmen are no one's slaves, nor are we animals."

I laughed. "Didn't the Germans tell you otherwise after France fell?" I paused, my lip quivering. "They said that after they murdered my son!"

Monsieur Bergeron stared at me, as if debating what he should do. "I'm so sorry."

I closed my eyes. "My little Louis was playing outside when a Gestapo staff car knocked him down. He tried to get up, but he couldn't move his legs. They must've heard him in Normandy, he was crying so hard." I clenched my fists, feeling as helpless as I did when I heard the squealing tires and thud of metal breaking four-year-old bones while I washed the breakfast dishes. "By the time I came outside, three men had gotten out of the car and ordered him to get out of their way. They shot him before I could stop them. 'We've done the world a great service by putting another French dog out of its misery,' they said. How could they do that to a child?"

Monsieur Bergeron reached for me. "Unbelievable."

"How have I sinned, Monsieur Bergeron?" I shrieked. "Am I a widow because I disobeyed my parents and eloped with Henri? Am I childless because I couldn't baptize little Louis when the Germans took Father Rousseau away?"

I felt him shift uneasily as he let me go. "Please don't cry, Madame."

I shook my head. "I won't. I cried all my tears out a year ago. I have nothing left in me but anger and vengeance. So help me God, I'll make those men pay."

"Hush, cherie, don't talk like that. Why don't you go home to the rest of your family?"

I sneezed again and shook my head. "I haven't seen them since I left our home in Evreaux seven years ago. They could be dead for all I know."

"Do you write them?"

"Why? They told me they'd never speak to me again if I married Henri." I hugged him. "You're the only one I have left. If it wasn't for you, I don't know what I'd do."

To his credit, Monsieur Bergeron didn't seem disturbed, only thoughtful. "Marcella, I've wondered something since I met you. I vowed I'd never ask, but I think the time has come. How did you end up at my door with a sprained ankle?"

I sighed. "His name was Sturmbannführer Eric Stadermann. I met him after Louis died in 1943. He promised me justice if I gave him my favour." I shuddered as I spat the words out. "Our arrangement went on for a few months before I realized all he'd done was take advantage of me. He laughed at me when I threatened to report him to his superiors and beat me when I tried to leave him." Instinctively, my fingers rubbed my collar, remembering the bruises where his fingers had been around my throat. "He probably would've killed me in his apartment that day if the phone hadn't rang and given me a chance to run."

oOo

Stadermann kneeled over me, leering at me. "Did you hear me? You're nothing!" His ragged breath stank of schnapps and whatever disease ate at his soul.

I probed the ground around me. I was running out of time.

"You can't run away from me." He hissed. "You're mine."

I spat at him. "I'm Marcella Moureau, formerly of the LeBeau family. I'm not anyone's property."

He wiped his face and pinned my shoulders to the ground. "You shouldn't have done that."

"Do what you must. I won't submit to you."

He cradled my chin in his fingers as he removed a gun from his belt. "Such a pity to kill a woman like you. You've got more spirit than most."

My fingers brushed against something thin and sharp. _My shoe's heel._ "Get it over with then."

He screwed up his face. "No. I want you to beg the way your boy before they shot him." He whispered in my ear. "The perfect end for a little French brat."

I grabbed the heel and swung as hard as I could. Standermann screamed, rolling away as he clutched his thigh.

"Rot in hell, you disgusting creature!" I shouted, kicking his gun away. "You're not half the man my son was!"

I gave him a sharp kick below his stomach and savoured his moans as I hobbled out of the rapidly darkening alley.

oOo

"I spent the night sleeping by your backdoor," I finished, trying to push the memories away.

"That's when I found you," Monsieur Bergeron said, nodding. "If I'd only known."

"You wouldn't have hired me." I extended my hand. "I understand. You have enough trouble keeping the Germans from closing your shop without protecting me too. Merci. You've been wonderful_."_

He frowned. "What are you babbling about? I'm not firing you. In fact, I think more highly of you." He reached into his vest pocket and checked his watch. "Now, Maurice and I are going for lunch. Will you be all right watching the store?"

I nodded. "Oui. I'll finish here and be right out."

He clapped my back. "Bonne chance. We'll be back soon."

oOo

I don't know how long I'd been counting when the shop's bell announced a customer.

"Excusez-moi?" a male voice asked.

"Just a minute." I said, setting down my ledger before jogging to the storage room door.

"Excusez-moi?" the voice repeated, annoyed this time.

I cursed under my breath as I pushed the door open and wiped my hands. "I beg your pardon monsieur, I've been…."

I froze as the customer turned around. I would've recognized that pin strip suit anywhere.

Judging by his face, Standermann was just as surprised to see me. "Well, well, my dear Marcella. It's been quite some time."

I backed away. "What are you doing here?"

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" He flashed a crooked grin. "Even you'd admit we were rather good friends."

My skin started to crawl. "Shut your filthy mouth! How did you find me?"

He removed his hat and took a step toward me. "Quite by accident. I'm here on vacation and I stopped at your little store to buy a copy of _Mein Kampf_. Do you have any?"

I backed into the cash register and ducked behind it. _I'm trapped. _

He reached into his pocket. "Such manners. Perhaps I can teach you some before we complete our business."

"We have no business!" I snapped. "Get out."

His crackle sent a shiver up my spine. "Oh, really?" You call a scar the size of a snake in my leg nothing? It's rather a fine souvenir, though many women don't agree." He pulled out a pistol. "Now, I'd like to leave you a little souvenir of my own. Where would you like it; your heart or your head?"

My fingers groped under the counter for the gun Monsieur Bergeron kept for robberies. "You bastard."

He clicked off the safety of his weapon. "You don't have decide right away, only put your hands where I can see them."

I hung my head and moved toward him. "It would seem my luck's run out. Before I die, I'd like to apologize for my behaviour. It hasn't been worthy of you. Tell me, Sturmbannführer, is there anything left between us?"

He fiddled with the trigger. "Shame on you, slut. I won't be fooled again."

I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the end as the front door bell tinkled. I opened my eyes in time to see Standermann glance over his shoulder. It wasn't much of an opening, but it was all I needed. I leapt at him, sending the gun flying under a shelf.

Realizing his mistake, Standermann shoved me off of him and reached for it. He may have been stronger than me, but I was faster. I rolled onto my side and grabbed it.

"No you don't!" he screamed, clamping his hands over mine and forcing the gun toward me.

Could I actually kill him? I wondered. I'd talked of it often, but can I do it? It would be easier to just let him kill you.I thought of Henri's twinkling brown eyes as he laughed at something foolish I'd said, how angelic Louis looked when I watched him sleep and how scared they must've been when they realized their lives would end prematurely. Please, God.

I pushed back with all the strength I could muster.

The pistol fired.

Standermann shuddered as he rolled away, trying to hold back the blood pouring from his stomach.

I stood up, feeling my blood cool. "Die, you son of a bitch!" I fired at his chest. "That's for my husband!" I fired at his head. "That's for my son." I paused, studying the almost unrecognizable specimen of the master race. "And this is for me." I fired into an area not far from his scarred thigh.

"Marcella!" I looked up and met Maurice's shocked expression. "What have you done?"

I dropped the gun, suddenly feeling very old. "Repaying an old friend for his kindness."

Maurice leaned over Standermann and felt for his pulse. "You killed him. Do you realize what this means?"

I nodded. "I'm glad I did it. I'd do it again."

Maurice stepped around the blood on the floor and past me to the cash register.

"What are you doing?" I asked, bending to retrieve the gun. "Don't call the police."

I expected to hear the click of a dialing phone rotary. Instead, the cash register pinged.

I stood up as Maurice returned with a handful of francs. "Here," he said, shoving them into my hands. "Get out of here and don't tell me where you're going."

I frowned. "I can't take this! What about your father?"

He waved my concern away. "Don't worry, I'll handle him. Hopefully, I'll have the _Sturmbannführer_ cleaned up before he returns from his chat with Madame Gillette at the cafe." He guided me toward the door. "What are you waiting for? The Gestapo are probably on their way."

I kissed his cheek. "I've never seen a boy grow up so fast. Merci, mon ami. I'll never forget you."

He shook his head. "Thank me after the war. Now, go, or I'll arrest you myself."

I opened the door and ventured into the back not looking back as tires screeched against the road behind me.

oOo

Stalag 13

A month later

Schultz moaned, wiping his sleeve against his forehead. "Someone must really not like me," he muttered.

"What's that, Schultz?"

The guard looked up at the camp's American senior officer, who stood a few feet away. "Oh, Colonel Hogan, please. Whatever it is, I don't want to know. This day is already bad enough."

Hogan crossed his arms. "What's the problem?"

Schultz rolled his eyes. "First it's too cold. Now it's too hot. And if that weren't bad enough, now I have to," he lowered his voice. "Deliver the mail. What did I do? Whatever I did, I'll promise I'll stop."

Hogan rubbed his chin and nodded. "I see what you mean. Tell you what, I'll give the men their mail and you can go back to whatever you were doing."

Schultz smiled. "Really? Danke." He handled Hogan the bundles of letters he'd hidden behind his back before marching off with a bounce in his step.

Hogan laughed and headed for Barrack 2. "Mail call!" he shouted.

The men dropped their carving, baseball gloves, volleyballs and other distractions and swarmed their commanding officer. For a moment, Hogan felt a twinge of pity for Schultz. _Poor guy, having to go through this every time._

Hogan raised the mail above his head. "Hold it! _Hold it! _Back off before I call a guard."

The men quieted down and retreated.

Hogan lowered his hands. "That's better." He read the first envelope. "LeBeau."

"Merci!" the Frenchmen gushed, snatching his letter.

"Carter!"

"Thanks sir." The sergeant said, taking his letter. "Oh boy, it's from my mom! I can tell by her handwriting."

"Mine's from my mother too," LeBeau said, tearing the envelope. "His eyes flicked across the page. "I don't believe it!"

"What?" Newkirk asked, joining his comrades.

"I don't believe it!" The Frenchmen's voice dissolved into a squeak.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Well, c'mon mate, don't hold out on us! What is it?"

"My sister Marcella's come home."

Carter frowned. "I didn't know you had another sister."

The letter shook in the Frenchmen's hands. "I haven't seen her in years, when she ran off with the village Romeo. Maman says she's come home a widow. She hasn't done much but sleep and weep at night, but she says she's happier now than she's been in a long time."

"Hey!" Hogan called. "Has anybody seen Kinch? He's got a letter!"

"Right here." Kinch waved, exiting the barrack. He looked around before lowering his voice and handing his commander a slip of paper. "Just got a message from the underground."

Hogan scanned the compound, making sure none of the guards were watching, before reading it and swearing under his breath.

Kinch frowned. "What is it?"

Hogan balled the note with a soft crunch and shoved it in his pocket. "You remember the Gestapo officer that transferred under Hochstetter's command last fall?"

"The one we turned?"

Hogan nodded. "Sturmbannführer Eric Stadermann. The underground just confirmed he was shot while on vacation in Paris." He sighed. "I guess we're back to the drawing board for a new set of eyes and ears on our favourite major's office."

LeBeau shook his head. "_Incroyable_. How could it have happened?"

1) novel written by Claire de Duras and published in 1823.

2) Pencil

3) Teddy bear


End file.
